


Cuckoo

by de_corporis



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, M/M, Suicidal Thoughts, Time Travel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-17
Updated: 2014-11-17
Packaged: 2018-02-25 15:31:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 20,764
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2626871
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/de_corporis/pseuds/de_corporis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In October 1945, veteran James Barnes fell in front of an oncoming train in the New York City subway.</p><p>He woke up in November 1943 in a world both like and unlike his own, and found a man with his face strapped to a lab table.</p><p>Some things are different, some things are the same, but one thing always holds true: in whatever world he's in, Bucky Barnes will always love Steve Rogers.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the Marvel Bang 2014 challenge. A million thanks to WeepingNaiad, swiftest of betas, who got this done on a time crunch.
> 
> Absolutely gorgeous fanart by the talented [candream](http://archiveofourown.org/users/candream) can be found [here](http://fandream.livejournal.com/35974.html).

On June 11, 1945, Bucky saw the New York City skyline for the first time since shipping out two years earlier. Some of the GIs were pressed up against the railing of the ship, whooping and cheering like they were coming home from a nice trip to summer camp, but Bucky wasn’t one of them. His eyes flickered over the Chrysler building’s gleaming roof, the proud spire of the Empire State, and the Gothic grandeur of Woolworth, all of them exactly like he remembered, and just felt tired. Tired, and anxious.

He’d sent two telegrams from Camp Lucky Strike. One of them was for Becca, telling her that he was all right and he’d be coming back to the States as soon as he could. The other was for Steve, only one sentence long: _I’m coming back to you._

He’d gotten an answer from Becca saying that she’d be waiting for him, but there’d been nothing from Steve. Before his capture he’d gotten letters from Steve every couple of weeks. They hadn’t come regularly - none of the soldiers ever got mail on any sort of schedule - but he’d never gone too long without hearing from him. Steve’s letters always started with _Heya Bucky_ and ended with _Stay safe_ , and Bucky’s replies were always something along the lines of _Tell me everything that’s new in Brooklyn_ and _How are your classes? Do you teachers know they've got a prodigy on their hands_? Bland and routine, for the most part, but that was all right. Neither of them liked to think of the censors reading their words to one another. 

Besides, it didn’t matter how mundane Steve’s letters were. All that mattered was that they were from _Steve_ , written in his graceful penmanship, and that they let Bucky know Steve was still safe in Brooklyn, studying art, and far away from the threat of bullets and grenades. He’d been grateful for every one of them. The other men in his unit had always teased Bucky about how much he looked forward to the letters from his sweetheart, and Bucky laughed and said they would, too, if they had a girl like his Stella.

The last time he sent a letter off to Steve was in December of last year, before he’d gotten captured in the Ardennes. Then he'd been sent to the Stalag, and the mines of Berga after that, and it wasn’t as if the Nazis gave a damn about POWs getting or sending mail. Bucky spent the long months until the Americans finally liberated them alternately worrying about how he was going to stay alive, and Steve - how was Steve managing on his own, was he getting enough to eat, was he pushing himself too hard. He probably was: Steve had never been too good at listening to his own body. 

So sure, Bucky had been glad to hear from Becca, but he’d really, really wanted to hear from Steve. Every day he’d been at Lucky Strike he’d been hoping for news from him, and every day there’d been nothing. Now he was almost back on New York soil, and he couldn’t shake the feeling that something was wrong. 

The ship settled into dock, the gangplanks were lowered, and the returning GIs started to make their way down into the cheering crowd of civilians. Bucky hefted his pack over his shoulder and joined them, keeping his head down and eyes fixed to the ground. In his fantasies he’d always step off the ship and see Steve, and then he’d smile and pull Steve into his arms, bend him into a kiss and not give a damn about who might see. In reality he was stepping out onto the city he’d grown up in only to be surrounded by a sea of strangers, and he felt as hopelessly adrift as he had when he’d first arrived at Basic and was thrust into a world of sharply barked orders and rigid discipline that he didn't really understand.

He felt hands clapping him on the back as he made his way through the throng, heard voices thanking him for all he’d done. His hand was shaken time and time again. Bucky could hear the relief in their voices, the gratitude, but all he wanted to do was get away. The press of bodies was too much; it made his palms sweat and his breath come too fast. He started moving faster and faster, not caring if he knocked anyone over, desperate to get out of the mob and to a place where he could breathe. He thought about all the times he’d seen Steve bend over with his hand pressed against a wall as he fought to draw air into his lungs, and wondered if this was what that had felt like. 

Brooklyn. He needed to get to Brooklyn. Becca’s letter said he should come to her place when he arrived, and he could manage that much. Brooklyn was home, Brooklyn was safe, and once he got there he’d find Steve, and Steve would tell him why he hadn’t written, and then everything would be all right. Bucky took a deep breath, forced himself to stay calm ( _you can do this soldier, you’ve faced worse_ ), and made his out of the crush. 

Becca was living in a rooming house not far from the Navy Yard where she’d taken a job. Bucky stood outside for a minute and looked up at the red brick facade. It reminded him of the building he’d lived in with Steve before shipping out. Their tiny set of rented rooms had always been drafty, too hot in the summer and too cold in winter, but they’d been happy enough, for the most part. It had been _theirs_ , their own little sanctuary where they could lie on the bed and put their mouths on each other’s bodies, and that had made everything else bearable, for the most part.

The door opened and a girl came out, her blond hair curled into ringlets and her lips painted a bright, aggressive red. She looked at the pack slung over his shoulder and the dull brown of his uniform, and raised an eyebrow.

“You’re Becca’s brother?”

He nodded. “Yeah.”

She stepped to one side. “Go on up, then. She’s in.”

He took the three flights of stairs up to Becca's room at a run. His raised his hand to knock, still a bit out of breath, but then the door jerked open and he was looking at his sister for the first time in three years.

For a moment neither of them said anything. Then Becca let out a long, ragged breath, said, “Oh God, _Bucky_ ,” and pulled him into a hug.

At first Bucky was frozen, his heart thumping painfully in his chest as his body tried to decide if it needed to try and break free or not. But then it remembered that this was Becca: Becca, whom he’d hugged when she came home from school with red eyes because the other girls had been picking on her, and hugged when she found out the boy she’d been sweet on was nothing but a two-timing cad; Becca, who’d been the one to run after him when his parents told him never to show his face around their door again, and thrown her arms around him and held on tight. His body remembered this, remembered her, and after a second his muscles relaxed and he hugged her back.

Becca pulled away after a minute, blinking furiously and sniffling just a bit. “You must be tired,” she said. “Want me to make us some coffee?”

“I...yeah.” Bucky smiled, and hoped it looked right, like the smile she remembered her brother having. “Yeah, Becca. That’d be great.”

“Well all right, then.” Becca pulled him inside her tiny room and pushed him toward the bed. “Go ahead and make yourself at home.” She went back into the hallway, and he could hear her shoes thumping down the stairs as she went down to the kitchen.

Bucky set his pack on the floor and sat down on the bed. The soft mattress felt strange after so much time sleeping on the ground or on thin blankets stretched over hard, unforgiving planks. His shoulders slumped and he closed his eyes, letting his head fall forward. The sounds of the city drifted in through the window: rumbling car engines punctuated by the sharp blare of horns, children shouting as they chased each other through the streets, all the ordinary sounds made by millions of people going about their daily lives. 

“Bucky.”

He opened his eyes. Becca was standing in front of him and holding out a blue ceramic mug. 

“Bucky. Here’s your coffee.”

Bucky took the mug from her and cradled the warmth between his palms. Becca retreated to the chair by the writing table, a stately old piece of furniture that looked out of place in this tiny ramshackle room, and looked at him. Silence stretched out between them, awkward and uncertain.

“You’re so thin,” she said finally, the words blurting out of her in a rush. She immediately looked horrified. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean -”

“There was never enough food,” said Bucky. He sipped at his coffee. It tasted faintly burnt. “We didn’t get any Red Cross packages, and it’s not like the Krauts cared about making sure we weren’t hungry. Some days we’d be licking crumbs off the floor.”

“God.” Becca licked her lips. “We were all so worried. Ma cried when the telegram came, and Da wouldn’t talk to anyone for a solid week.”

Bucky laughed, black and bitter. “Right,” he said. “I’m sure they were devastated.”

“They _were_ ,” Becca insisted. “You’re still family, and you should really go and see them -”

“ _No_.” Bucky’s hands were shaking, and the coffee threatened to slosh out of his mug. “C’mon, Becca. You remember what they said to me.” He closed his eyes and saw his father swinging his fist toward Bucky’s face while he raged that he hadn’t raised his son to be a goddamned queer; his mother, white-faced and trembling but not trying to stop her husband, asking him if Steve had dragged him down into sin.

That question hurt more than the bruises his father left on him. Steve hadn’t dragged him down into anything: Steve was light and love and goodness; Steve looked at Bucky and made him want to be something _better_. Bucky would never stand to hear anyone say there was something twisted and corrupting about Steve. It was blasphemy.

His entire body ached for Steve. 

“Becca,” he said, opening his eyes. “Becca, where’s Steve?”

Tears spilled down Becca’s cheeks, and in that moment, Bucky _knew_.

“I’m sorry,” she said, twirling her mug around and around in her hands. “I wanted to tell you, but...it seemed cruel, to put it in a telegram. I couldn’t.”

Bucky stared at her. He could see the moisture captured on her eyelashes and faint streaks of makeup at her jawline. “Go on.”

She took a deep, steadying breath. “It was pneumonia.” Her voice didn't shake. “Three months ago. He hung on for a while, but in the end it was too much. You know how he was.”

Bucky did. He remembered Steve coughing so hard he spat blood, Steve delirious with fever, Steve struggling to breathe. He remembered lying awake with his hand resting gently on Steve’s skinny chest and counting heartbeats. He’d always been so afraid that Steve would just slip away from him one night, but Steve had always rallied, found the strength to hang on just a while longer.

_Couldn’t you have held on for me just one more time?_

“I wanted to come home to him,” said Bucky through numb lips. “All I wanted to do was come home to him.”

“I know. Bucky, I’m so sorry.”

He felt his breath entering and leaving his lungs, his heart beating in his chest, the throbbing of blood in his fingertips. He stood up, walked over to the window, and leaned out. He could smell gasoline, rotting garbage, asphalt baking under a summer sun. New York City, just like he remembered. He hated it. It was nothing but a wasteland. 

“Bucky,” said Becca, soft and tentative. “Say something. Please.”

Bucky laughed. It was absurd. He’d survived the invasion of the French Riviera, survived the Ardennes, survived captivity in Berga, and now he wished he hadn’t. The whole time he’d been over there he’d dreamed of Steve waiting for him, safe and alive, and as it turned out Steve had died while he was slaving away digging tunnels for the Nazis.

He laughed until he was bent over and gasping for air. Then he slumped to the floor, buried his face in his hands, and wept.

* * *

The city was haunted. Bucky’s feet took him to the building where he’d lived with Steve, the automat where they used to drink coffee late at night, the park where Steve liked to sit and sketch on sunny days, and his ghost always hovered at the corner of Bucky’s eye. Bucky always tried to resist looking. He told himself not to, that he was only making it worse, but in the end he always looked, and saw nothing, and felt his heart break over and over again.

Becca begged him to stop. “You’re making yourself sick,” she said every time he showed up at her doorstep with dark smudges under his eyes and Steve’s name on his lips. “Please, Bucky. You have to let him go. Please.”

Bucky shrugged. He sipped the coffee Becca made for him while she talked about the GI Bill and getting back on his feet, and nodded every once in a while like he was actually interested. He’d never been able to fool his baby sister, though. She could see right through him.

“You’re not even going to try, are you?” Bucky could see the moisture clinging to her eyelashes. “You’re just going to keep looking for Steve, even though he’s never coming back, and be miserable?”

Bucky stared at her with hollow eyes and said nothing. 

Becca drew a deep, shuddering breath and closed her eyes. “You’re my brother,” she said. “And I will always love you. But I can’t watch you do this. Bucky, I _can't_.”

Bucky nodded, pressed a kiss to her tear stained cheek, and left.

Summer faded into fall, and Bucky remained numb to everything around him. He took odd jobs where he could get them, and slept where he could. He never went back to Becca’s apartment. Nothing mattered anymore. It was like he was underwater, where everything was distant and muffled, and he’d stopped trying to reach for the surface. It was easier to keep drifting down, down, down, into the quiet darkness of the depths.

In late October, he got caught in a rainstorm. It was a true downpour, with raindrops so heavy and fat they rendered both overcoats and umbrellas useless, and the combination of cold and wet was enough to send Bucky scurrying down into the thick, humid air of the subway. It was a place he usually avoided. Being underground made him remember all the days he’d spent inhaling rock dust in the tunnels at Berga, his muscles screaming as he manipulated the drill, wondering if it wasn’t better to just lay down, give up, and die. But right now he was drenched, and starting to shiver. He could ride the train until it stopped pouring and he dried off a bit. It wouldn’t be too bad. 

He paid his fare and slunk to the very end of the platform. A couple of baby-faced, smooth shaven young men dressed in expensive jackets and shoes slid their eyes over him as he walked past, and Bucky pretended not to see their smirks. He knew what he looked like, dressed in an increasingly worn army jacket with his unkempt hair hanging around his face. He looked pathetic. A joke for kids who hadn’t even been overseas to laugh at.

Steve would’ve given them a piece of his mind. He would’ve stood his ground and told them to show some respect for a veteran. Only Bucky had never been as upstanding as Steve, and he was too tired to care.

A train on the opposite track rushed past, leaving a rush of wind and the screech of metal on metal in its wake. Two girls hurried into the station, with wet ringlets of hair plastered to their foreheads and their eyes shining with laughter. They were vibrant and full of life, beautiful the way only young things are.

The men who’d laughed at Bucky noticed them at once.

“Heya, dolls,” said one of them. His voice was smooth and slick like oil. “You need some company?”

The girls’ smiles grew tight and wary, and they drew closer together.

“I said, _hey_.” The youth took a step toward the girls. His friends grinned. “Didn’t your mamas tell you it’s polite to pay attention when someone’s talking to you?”

Bucky thought of Steve. Steve had never stood by and watched while some mook made a girl uncomfortable. He straightened his shoulders and walked back toward the group, hands clenching and unclenching. 

“Maybe they’re just not interested,” he said.

The youth turned and looked at him, and Bucky could see the scorn in his eyes. “Stay out of this, pal.” His lips curled up into a sneer. “Wouldn’t want you to get _dirty_.” His friends snickered, and he turned back to the girls. “Now, ladies -”

Bucky had been numb for months, but now he felt anger licking through his body. It was intoxicating. It was powerful. Steve was dead, but punks like this, who thought it was fun to bother women on the subway and couldn’t even begin to understand what sacrifice meant, were still alive. It was monstrous. Unfair. He couldn’t bear it.

“Why don’t you just lay off,” he said, and his punch connected solidly with the boy’s jaw.

One of the girls screamed. Bucky ignored her and went in for another punch, this time knocking the punk down to the ground. Behind him someone was yelling. Another pair of hands grabbed at him; a fist plunged into his stomach. 

A horn sounded in the distance. Bucky thrashed wildly and was suddenly free, stumbling dangerously toward the platform edge. He could see the train’s oncoming lights farther down in the tunnel.

“Jesus,” said one of the young men. “What a mess.”

Bucky’s eyes were blurry with tears. He lurched forward, raising his fists again. He didn’t want to stop. He wanted to keep going, to let all of his anger and grief pour out of him until he was finally empty.

He stepped forward. Someone shoved him back, hard enough to get him off balance. He tipped back on his heels, hovering over the void.

He could hear screaming.

He turned his head as he fell, and saw the headlights rushing toward him, heard the screech as the conductor slammed on the brakes. It was too late, though. Everything was 

Too 

Late. 

_Steve_ , he thought. His entire body jerked like it had been hit with an electric current, and then -

He wasn’t dead. That was the first thing he realized. He’d fallen in front of a moving train: his body should have been crushed, his limbs mangled and his skull smashed apart with pieces of brain matter spattered across the tracks of the New York subway. He should not be standing upright, alive and whole, with his blood pounding through his veins and his lungs sucking in desperate gulps of air.

He looked down at his hands. There was the scar he’d picked up in the Ardennes, right on the fleshy part of his thumb, and his fingernails were still ragged from all the times he’d bitten them. It was _his_ body, solid and real. Alive, not dead.

Bucky had never been so terrified.

He should’ve been dead, not standing here with breath and a heartbeat. Should’ve been dead and with Steve, or at least granted oblivion and freedom from the pain of knowing what he’d lost, not still alive and trapped in this prison of flesh and bone. It was all wrong. Ice cold terror flooded his veins, making his impossible heart thump harder and harder while his breath came shallow and fast.

He struggled not to panic. That was first on the list of things he didn’t want to do, because on top of being alive when he wasn’t supposed to be, he wasn’t _where_ he was supposed to be. The last thing he’d seen were the cream and cobalt checkered tiles of the subway station and the glaring lights of the oncoming train. Now he was in a cold and dark utilitarian corridor with no train in sight. Something about it brought him right back to the war and to the Stalag, and he knew, with the same instincts that had saved him from being blown to pieces during the Battle of St. Vith, that he needed to get out of here as fast as he could. 

He dug his fingernails into his palms and forced himself to _concentrate, soldier_. There was no one in sight, and he couldn’t hear anything except for a high-pitched mechanical whine that throbbed behind his eyes and made him want to gnash his teeth together. He could do this. He had a fighting chance. Bucky took a deep breath, pressed himself against the wall, and yes, his body remembered what to do, remembered how to move quickly and quietly with all of his senses on high alert as he lifted his rifle and took aim at the target.

And then he stopped, eyes fixed on a metal door set in the opposite wall.

He needed to keep moving. He knew he was deep in some sort of enemy territory and that every second he lingered was putting himself more at risk, but he couldn’t tear his eyes away from it. The instinct to _get out get out get out_ was nothing more than a background murmur, drowned out by the overpowering need to see whatever was behind that door, and the next step he took wasn’t toward the end of the corridor and the possibility of freedom. It was toward the door.

The room it opened into seemed unremarkable, just a workroom like any other, with scientific instruments scattered over long wooden tables and walls covered with maps. He leaned in closer, hoping they could at least tell him where he was, and felt the world tilt even further out of alignment. The maps didn’t make sense. They showed the Allied and German fronts, but the war was over, had been over for _months_ now, and these troop positions were from ‘43.

Then he heard it. A low hoarse voice muttering, “Sergeant James Barnes 32557, Sergeant James Barnes, 32557,” over and over again.

Bucky's breath caught in his throat. He wanted to scream, or maybe cry. He wanted to run away from this nightmare world where he was still alive but in the wrong place and the wrong damn time, and now someone was reciting his name, rank, and serial number the way he had back in the Stalag. He wanted to wake up; he wanted to be dead. He wanted to get the hell out of here. 

He went deeper inside.

There was an alcove tucked away in the back of the room, invisible from where he’d first walked in. It held an operating table with some kind of heavy piece of machinery hovering over it, like something out of an H.G. Wells story, but Bucky barely noticed it. His eyes were fixed on the person strapped to the table by thick leather restraints. He knew who it was, knew exactly whose face he would see once he got up close, and God, he didn’t understand, didn’t want to be here, wanted to be dead and gone and far away.

“Sergeant James Barnes, 32557.”

Bucky stepped forward and looked down at himself.

There had been no mirrors at Berga. Bucky hadn’t seen what he looked like while he was there, but imagined it was something like this. He ran his eyes over the heavy bruising on his doppelganger’s face and wrists, noticed the way his eyes were staring blankly up at nothing as he continued his endless recitation. It was the sight of that pain that kept Bucky from flying completely apart. Even as one part of his mind was babbling at him in terrified confusion, the rest focused in on the problem at hand: a man had been tortured, and Bucky needed to set him free.

“I’ll get you out of here,” he said, his fingers busy with the first strap. “I’ll get you out, and we’ll figure out what the hell’s going on, and everything will be fine.”

As soon as he could move his arms the doppelganger grabbed at Bucky’s shirt and dragged him down until their faces were only inches apart. His eyes were frightened and so wide Bucky could see the whites all around, but they were lucid.

“Can’t save me,” he rasped. “‘M going too fast. Run before he comes back.”

“Not leaving you,” muttered Bucky. “No man left behind, and all that.”

The other Bucky shook his head and started to cough. When he finally stopped there were flecks of blood spattered across his lips and chin.

“You have to _go_ ,” he said again. “For Steve. I’m gonna die here and someone has to take care of Steve. ‘S why you’re here, right? For Steve.”

“Steve’s dead,” said Bucky, and he couldn’t keep his voice from cracking. “He died and left me all alone and I’m supposed to be dead, too -”

But his counterpart was shaking his head, muttering, “Steve, Steve, _Steve_.” His back arched and his lips parted in one last anguished cry before the body slumped back onto the operating table. His eyes were blank and lifeless, and a thin trickle of blood seeped out of his left nostril. Bucky didn’t need to check for a pulse to know he was dead.

He looked down at this other Bucky, who shared his face and name, and felt helpless.

“I don’t know what to do,” he whispered, and didn’t know if he was asking the dead man or whatever powers-that-be had sent him to this place. “I don’t know what you want me to do.”

To be distracted in the middle of a dangerous situation was to die. Bucky knew this, and should’ve remembered it now. He didn’t know anyone was behind him until the needle was already pricking his neck. He cursed and staggered against the operating table. Rough hands grabbed at him and spun him around. Bucky’s vision was already starting to blur, but he could see a man, short and bespectacled and balding whose fleshy lips were curving up in a smile. He should have looked harmless, but something about the eagerness in his expression made Bucky more afraid of him than of the men who were manhandling him.

“But this is fascinating,” said the scientist. If Bucky had any lingering doubts that he’d been dropped back in the middle of the war, they were gone as soon as he heard that accent. “It is unfortunate that our own Sergeant Barnes was unable to survive the procedure, but it appears that fate has given us a replacement. Gentlemen, if you would prepare the subject.”

The hands on him tightened their grasp. Bucky tried to struggle, but whatever they’d hit him with worked fast, and he was disoriented and slow. He could only watch as the other Bucky’s limp body was pulled off of the operating table and dragged away like a broken puppet, and then he was being shoved into his counterpart’s place. Leather restraints bit into his arms and immobilized him while the machine above the table whirled to life.

The scientist’s face swam into view above him. “So,” he said. “So. It is only polite that I introduce myself to you because I think we will be great friends, you and I. I am Arnim Zola, chief science officer of HYDRA, and it will be my greatest pleasure to help you unlock your true potential.” 

“I think I’d rather pass on that, if it’s all the same to you.” Bucky’s lips had gone numb. Getting the words out was like trying to speak underwater, slow and difficult and dreamlike.

Zola sighed and shook his head, as though Bucky were an errant child who had failed to understand a fundamentally simple lesson. “I had great hopes for the James Barnes who died. He was the most promising subject I have found so far, and it is a pity that he was unable to survive the initial procedures. But it would seem that all is not lost. The Tesseract had an intense energy surge within the past hour, and I do not believe that your arrival is a mere a coincidence. I believe it was the universe giving me what I need.”

Bucky didn’t want to be anything that this man needed. He wanted to scream and yell, but the straps and the sedative had him tight in their grip. He was helpless to do anything other than lie there as Zola prepared a syringe of liquid and pressed the tip against the tender skin at his elbow. 

“You are, of course, welcome to share any relevant information you might have regarding Allied troop movements.”

Bucky licked his lips. “Sergeant James Barnes, 32557.” he said. “Sergeant James Barnes 32557, Sergeant James Barnes -”

Zola smiled. “No? Then let us begin.”

The needle slid under Bucky’s skin, and then there was nothing but agony.

* * *

Bucky used to think that nothing could be worse than Berga, where he’d been cold and starving and sure that one day he’d just lie down and never get up. The day it was liberated, he thought, _This is it_. He’d been through the worst thing a man could be subjected to, and come out alive. Nothing would be able to hurt him, ever again.

He was wrong.

At Berga the work had been brutal, but it was work. The guards at Berga had treated his body like part of a machine, to be used until it broke and then thrown away: brutal, perhaps, but a straightforward form of torture. This was different. Zola had him pinned down like an insect, scraping him away layer by layer so he could see what him tick, and that was horrifying to Bucky in a way that the mines never were. At Berga he had still felt that he had some control over his body, but on Zola’s table even his cells were being corrupted. He was changing, only not by choice.

Time slipped away from him. His body was a prison. Bucky wished his hands were free so that he could dig his thumbs into his eyes and force them out of his skull, and then crawl out through the empty sockets. Maybe then he’d be able to get out of this body that was no longer his own, and finally be free. 

He was starting to give in, to believe that maybe he’d died and gone straight to Hell after all, when Steve appeared.

Except this Steve wasn’t the Steve he remembered. The Steve of his memories was short and slight, and, even though Bucky would’ve never dared say it to his face, _delicate_. This Steve was tall and broad, his hands steady and strong as they undid the straps holding Bucky down and then helped him to his feet. 

“I thought you were dead,” said this new Steve, and his voice was achingly familiar. Bucky would know that voice anywhere. 

“I thought you were smaller,” he said, squinting up at Steve.

Steve grinned, quick and shy, but there was only time for _joined the army_ and _permanent so far_ before they were running through the corridors. He could hear the distant sound of explosions, but there was no time to be be afraid. All he could do was follow Steve through the collapsing base, and trust him.

Steve didn’t let him down.

They finally stumbled out of the burning base and made for the treeline and the rest of the prisoners. Bucky was shivering and retching, but he felt better than he had in a long time.

He was free. He was alive. And he was with Steve.

* * *

They marched straight through the night. There wasn’t a man among them who wasn’t exhausted, hungry, and in pain - except for maybe Steve, impossible, marvelous, extraordinary _Steve_ \- but they forced themselves to push through it, driven by the need to get as far away from the base as possible. Bucky gritted his teeth and kept up, even though all he wanted to do was lie down on the earth and let it spin slowly beneath him.

He thought of the man with the red face, and his mind skittered away from the memory in terrified confusion. Steve’s presence showed that this world could work miracles; apparently not all of them were beautiful and good.

A few hours past dawn Steve finally called a halt. “Take a breather,” he said, and God, he looked just like the leader Bucky had always known he could be if he were given half a chance. “We’re not stopping again until we’re back at camp.”

The men cheered. They might not have had any food or cigarettes or booze, but it was celebration enough to be out in the open air with the pale autumn sunshine streaming down through the treetops. Some of them were slapping Steve on the back and shaking his hand, calling him _Captain America_. Steve’s answering grin was an endearing mix of pride and bashfulness, and so familiar it hit Bucky like a punch to the gut. 

He couldn’t look at Steve. It was too much. Bucky pushed his way to the fringes of their ragtag band and sat down on a fallen tree trunk. He tipped his head back and shut his eyes. The air in the forest smelled like earth and pine needles, and it was cool enough to be pleasant without making him cold. It was a small moment of peace, the first one he’d had since…since before he’d been shipped off to Europe, really.

He heard the sound of boots stepping on twigs and fallen leaves, and the creak of leather as someone knelt in front of him. “Bucky,” said Steve. “Hey. Bucky, you with me?”

Bucky opened his eyes. Steve’s face was smeared with dirt and his blond hair was dark with sweat, but he was so beautiful and gloriously _alive_ that Bucky wanted to get down on his knees and press his face to Steve’s stomach, heedless of who might see. 

He thought that maybe whatever happened to him in that lab was worth it, just to see Steve again.

“Steve,” he croaked, and swallowed hard. “Thought I was never gonna see you again.”

Steve’s face twisted up in a pained expression before he surged forward to wrap a big, warm hand around the back of Bucky’s neck, bringing their foreheads together. “Oh God, Bucky,” he said. “Colonel Phillips thought you were dead, but I didn’t believe him. I _couldn’t_.” His voice was thick and shaky, like he was trying not to cry. “I mean, Buck, who’s gonna watch my back if you’re not around?”

Something ugly and sharp lodged itself in Bucky’s throat. He remembered that other Bucky, his eyes wide and full of pain and the way he’d said, _Steve_ right before the life went out of him. This Steve’s Bucky _had_ died, and he himself was nothing but an imposter. He wasn’t who Steve thought he was. 

But.

Bucky knew what it felt like to lose someone. This Steve didn’t need to feel that pain, though, because Bucky was here. He could make himself into whatever this Steve needed him to be, and keep Steve safe from knowing his best friend had died under torture. That must’ve been what the other Bucky had wanted to him to do. It would be a _good_ thing.

He pushed the guilt deep down inside, where it could fester out of sight, and summoned up what he hoped was an approximation of his usual cocky grin. “Looks like you don’t need much watching these days.”

“Aww, Buck.” Steve pulled back a bit, just enough that they could look at each other. Bucky could see the worry in Steve's eyes, the lingering traces of fear. His hand slipped down to Bucky’s shoulder and he squeezed it hard. 

“Bucky,” said Steve, and his voice was soft and earnest, “You’ve gotta know that I’ll always need you there to watch my back. You’ve gotta.”

Bucky felt tears pricking at the corners of his eyes. He took a deep breath and refused to let them fall. “Well,” he said. “You were always such a dumb little punk and jumping headfirst into fights. That probably hasn’t changed, huh?”

Steve grinned. “Afraid not.” He looked down at his body, big and broad and strong, then back up at Bucky. “It’s something though, isn’t it? I still haven’t gotten used to it. I mean, it’s nice to be able to actually _breathe_ , for a change, but,” his grin turned bashful and he hunched his shoulders a bit, looking awkward and uncertain, “I still feel so clumsy, like I’m going to accidentally break something. Sometimes I think it was easier being small and skinny.”

“I never minded you being small and skinny,” blurted out Bucky. He wanted to say, _You were beautiful_ , but the words remained trapped in his throat. “I’ve always known who you are,” he said instead, and hoped that Steve would understand.

Steve looked back at Bucky. There was a crease on Steve’s forehead, like he was trying to puzzle something out, and Bucky’s heart was thumping so loudly he was sure Steve could hear it. Steve took a deep breath, like he was getting ready to say something.

“Cap!” Dugan was coming up behind Steve, fallen leaves crunching loudly beneath his boots. “Wondered where you’d gone off to. Time to get moving, don’t you think?”

The moment slipped away and was gone. Steve looked away from Bucky and got to his feet, Captain America once again. “Right,” he said. “Let’s get on back to camp.” 

Bucky let Steve pull him up and drape a heavy arm across his shoulders, all easy-going, best-buddy camaraderie, and tried not to think of what Steve had been about to say.

They made it back to camp in late afternoon under an overcast sky. The men cheered; Steve gave the commanding officer a textbook salute and offered to surrender himself to military discipline. Unnecessary, of course. There would probably be a mutiny if Captain America were apprehended.

That was the first time Bucky saw Peggy Carter. He saw the way she looked at Steve, and the way Steve was looking at her. He’d seen that look on Steve’s face before, years before and an ocean away, only that time it had been directed at him.

_Oh_ , thought Bucky. _Oh_.

“Hey,” he shouted, because the selfish part of him couldn’t bear to see that moment between them stretch on, “let’s hear it for Captain America!” And he watched everyone cheer for Steve, just like everyone should’ve been doing along, and tried to pretend that the only thing that hurt was his body.

* * *

Of course Steve asked him to be part of his team. 

Bucky had known Steve would ask, and had also known what his answer would be. It wasn’t even a matter of choice, not really: Steve was his true north, same as he’d always been. So Steve asked, Bucky raised his glass of whiskey, thought, _I’m sorry, Becca_ , and said, sign me up.

In the first couple of weeks following the formation of the Howling Commandos, Bucky managed to establish the following the facts:

1) He’d been pushed off of that subway platform in October 1945. It was now November 1943. So: whatever force had snatched out of the New York subway and dropped in Europe had seen fit to drag him back in time as well.

2) For the most part, the War was still the same. Hitler was still a madman bent on global domination, Japan had still bombed Pearl Harbor, England still remained a bastion of freedom. The main difference was in this world, the Germans had their scientific research division HYDRA, and HYDRA was doing things that in Bucky’s world were still firmly in the realm of science fiction.

3) No matter what universe he was in, he would always be in love with Steven Grant Rogers. 

Bucky knew that, to a certain extent, this Steve was not the Steve he grew up with. That Steve had died sick and alone in New York City while Bucky was hundreds of miles away on the battlefields of Europe, and Bucky would never stop mourning him. The thing was, though, this new Steve, who had been picked up by Doctor Erskine and given a body to match his spirit - he was still Bucky’s Steve in every way that mattered. He was still that Brooklyn boy who’d refused to stand by and watch someone get bullied, full of more bravery and determination than anyone else Bucky had ever known; he was still too kind and generous for his own good, always making sure everyone else was taken care of before worrying about himself. Everything that Bucky knew to be an integral part of Steve Rogers was still there, bright and pure and unchanged from world to world. 

Even their story seemed to be mostly the same, from what Bucky managed to pick up on. Every once in a while Steve would mention something like the time he’d gotten in trouble at school for drawing what the teacher deemed “highly indecent” pictures in his notebook, and Bucky had promptly started a fistfight so they were both held back late; or the first time he and Bucky went to a Dodgers game and Bucky had almost managed to catch a home run ball, and Bucky knew exactly what he was talking about. It went the other way, too: Steve knew about how they’d gotten completely sauced and then wandered the streets falling all over each other when Prohibition was repealed, or how Steve made them see _Snow White and the Seven Dwarves_ three times and by the third time Steve was singing along under his breath.

But there were also the things that Bucky kept to himself. He never mentioned how when they went to see _The Wizard of Oz_ they sat in the back of the theatre and held hands, and Bucky had put his lips against the soft skin of Steve’s earlobe to murmur along with “Somewhere Over the Rainbow.” He didn’t mention going to the Hamilton Lodge drag ball in ‘38 and dancing the entire night away, then daring to steal one brief kiss out in the streets on their way home. Bucky kept those and a thousand other moments of _Bucky and Steve_ locked away in his heart, and only let them out late at night when he was awake and alone, and could let himself fall apart in the darkness. 

Steve was Steve, and Bucky couldn’t help but love him. He couldn’t help wanting to pull Steve’s head into his lap and stroke his hair while he slept, or to run his hands all over that impossible body after a mission to make sure he hadn’t been hurt, and the fact that he _couldn’t_ was a dull ache that never went away. But he could live with it. He’d spent years trying not to let his Steve know that he was queer for him, too much of a coward to make the first move himself, and he still knew how to hide a bleeding heart behind a cocky smile. He knew how to talk and laugh with Steve and not let on that every second of it was the sweetest sort of torture, and that a part of him wanted to be so much more than best friends and brothers.

Being part of the Commandos helped. There was no time to think about heartache when all his attention needed to be on making sure no one was sneaking up on Steve’s vulnerable back, and the only things that mattered were the rifle in his hands and what he saw in his crosshairs. His job was to protect Steve and clear a path for him. He couldn’t let anything interfere with that, not even his own stupid heart.

And he was good at it. More than good: he was the best.

Bucky would’ve thought his ability with a rifle would be somewhat rusty and slow to come back. He’d always been good - his CO back in base camp had called him a natural, and singled him out for marksmanship training early on - but between his time in the Stalag and then in New York it had been some time since he’d actually handled a weapon. Funny thing was, that didn’t seem to matter - he was better than he’d ever been, and it wasn’t just that his body automatically remembered what to do after the first couple of missions. His eyesight was much keener than it used to be, and he could hear enemy soldiers from much farther away than he should’ve been able to. He noticed he grew tired less quickly, and needed less sleep to recover. He thought about Zola’s cold smile and what he’d said about _unlocking your potential_ , and felt sick with unease.

He caught Steve watching him a couple of times, his forehead wrinkled up in a frown, but he never asked. And Bucky wasn’t going to tell.

* * *

The one time he almost slipped up and let Steve know how he felt was in Paris in ‘44. The Commandos were deactivating a string of HYDRA research facilities near the German border during the liberation itself, but were given two weeks’ leave at the end of September. Bucky knew that Steve wanted to go to London, where Peggy was being held up with SSR business, but also felt obligated to stay close to the front lines in case they were needed. Duty won out over romance, and so Paris it was.

They had a good time, for the most part. At night Dernier and Jones dragged them from one hole-in-the-wall tavern to another, where they drank red wine out of unmarked bottles and smoked Gauloises. When it was sufficiently late and they were sufficiently drunk (Steve and his abnormal metabolism excepted), they stumbled off to the cabarets. That was when their group usually started to come undone, with most of them finding a companion for the night. Steve, loyal to Peggy, never did, and neither did Bucky.

They spent the days together, wandering through the cobbled streets and along the banks of the Seine. Steve carried his sketchbook with him, and was always stopping so he could capture the graceful ironwork of an apartment balcony, or ivy creeping inexorably up ancient stonework, or a young woman who’d stopped on her bicycle to kiss her young man. Bucky stood next to him in silence, content to look at way the sunlight glinted off Steve’s hair as he sketched.

“Isn’t it boring for you?” asked Steve one time, when they were sitting on the banks of the Seine looking across the water toward Notre Dame. “You don’t have to come with me if there’s something else you’d rather be doing?”

Bucky shrugged and tilted his head, enjoying the warm sun on his face. He used to go to the Met with Steve when they had a free afternoon, and he’d trail along behind Steve, nodding his head while Steve stopped in front of one painting after another to talk about forced perspective, or chiaroscuro, or the significance of certain brushstrokes. He pretended to get impatient and would huff a bit, teasing Steve about how he couldn’t see why one picture of the European landscape was so different from another, but they both knew it was mostly an act. After a while they’d go back into the bright outside world, and in the summer Bucky would buy them each a Coke and they’d sit in Central Park, Steve sketching and Bucky watching. 

Their last night before heading back to the front they were all crammed into a tiny tavern filled with cigarette smoke and laughter. Someone had put on a record, and a woman with a low, husky voice was singing a mournful melody - Bucky couldn’t understand the words, but if he had to guess he’d say it was all about lost love and missed chances - and a few couples were dancing slowly with their cheeks pressed together. It reminded Bucky of one night he’d had in Marseilles, after the Allied troops had successfully landed on the Riviera and were taking a breather before pushing farther up into France. They'd been happy then, drinking and laughing and grateful to be alive, not yet aware that the winter of '44 would be more brutal than they could imagine. 

Steve finally got up to leave close to one in the morning, and Bucky followed after him, brushing off the other Commandos' teasing laughter with an answering grin of his own. It was nice to walk through the dark city streets with Steve, the two of them walking along in companionable silence with nothing else to do.

“Next time we’re on leave,” said Bucky eventually, turning to look at Steve, “we’ll make sure Carter’s with us. You won’t have to spend all your time keeping an eye on us bachelors.”

Steve tilted his head back and laughed. “C’mon, Buck. You know I never mind spending time with you.”

Bucky wished that didn’t make his heart flutter. “Yeah, well,” he said, and his voice sounded harsh in his ears. “I spent so many years trying to set you up with a dame, now that you’ve finally got one it’s just a shame that you’re not out taking her dancing.”

Steve ducked his head and was quiet. Bucky felt a brief moment of panic - had he said the wrong thing and slipped up, did Steve know he was _wrong_ \- but then Steve looked back at him with a faint blush spreading across his cheekbones. 

“I can’t take her dancing,” he muttered. “I still don’t know how. I’ve always been the wallflower, remember?”

“Never learned?” Bucky stared at him in astonishment. So, the Bucky in this world had never taught Steve how to dance. He’d taught _his_ Steve, though - Bucky remembered dozens of nights in their two tiny rented rooms with their hands clasped and their feet tapping out the steps. Bucky had always liked the way their bodies fit together, his arm around Steve’s waist and Steve’s soft blond hair brushing against his chin. Bucky would never refuse to partner anyone who was willing and light on their feet, but Steve had been his favorite. No one’d ever felt as good in his arms as Steve, and when his asthma wasn’t too bad they’d gone up to the West Village or to Harlem, where no one would raise too much of a fuss at seeing a man dancing with another man, and they’d danced all night and then stumbled home in the wee hours stealing furtive kisses in the streets. 

But this Steve had never learned, and Bucky was feeling just a little bit reckless. Maybe it was that they were in Paris, a city basking in exultation after years of being under Nazi rule, or maybe it was the wine. Maybe it was just that it was a beautiful night, warm but not stifling, and Bucky was alive, and Steve was alive, and so Bucky couldn’t _not_.

He could see a small gate off to his left, an opening into one of the city's myriad hidden enclaves, and before he could think too much about it he grabbed Steve's hand and pulled him forward. 

"Bucky?" asked Steve. "What are you doing?"

“Just c’mon,” said Bucky, and wound his arm around Steve’s waist. This Steve wasn’t tiny: he had a couple inches and several pounds of muscle on Bucky, but they somehow managed to fit together. They were still Steve and Bucky, two halves of the one whole.

“ _Bucky_ ,” hissed Steve, his cheeks going even redder. “Bucky, we can’t -”

“Oh, relax. There’s no one to see us.” That much was true: the courtyard they were in was empty and nearly all of the windows overlooking it were dark. They could hear the distant sounds of music, and quick conversation mixed with laughter, but there was no one else in sight. It was just them, alone together in the Paris night.

“Come on, Steve,” murmured Bucky. He stepped closer to Steve, so close there was barely an inch of air between them. “Put your left hand on my shoulder.” Steve hesitated, and Bucky held his breath. Then Steve obeyed, his hand a weight that Bucky felt all the way down to his feet, and the world exhaled. Bucky twined their free hands together. “There you go. We’ll start with the waltz. It’s easy, see, just one-two-three, one-two-three…”

Steve had always been a fast learner, whether it was math or languages or how to wield a firearm, and it wasn’t long before they were waltzing smoothly over the cobblestones. Bucky wanted to close his eyes and pretend, just for a moment, that they were dancing _together_ , like he and his Steve once had, but he didn’t dare.

“See?” he said instead, and gave Steve the same smile he’d always used to charm him back in Brooklyn. “Nothing to it, now is there?”

Steve laughed. “It seems a bit sedate.”

“Well, you’ve gotta start somewhere. Here, let’s do a twirl.”

Steve shook his head, still smiling. “I’m too tall for you to twirl, Buck. And hey, why am I the dame here? Shouldn’t you be teaching me how to lead?”

Bucky used to be able to twirl Steve, used to be able to lift Steve clear off his feet and swing him up into a lift. He’d never manage to sweep this Steve off the ground. This Steve might be able to sweep _him_ , though, and that was a thought that made his mouth go dry and his heart thump just a little faster.

“Well, then,” he said, and somehow managed to keep his voice steady, “if _that’s_ how you want to do this, why don’t you go ahead and twirl me.”

It was clumsy and awkward, but they managed. Steve lifted their joined hands and Bucky twirled underneath them, then Steve’s arm was sliding around his waist and tugging him back in. He was just a bit too forceful - he knew how to use that miraculous body to fight, but hadn’t yet figured out how to be gentle with all that raw power - and Bucky couldn’t help stumbling right into that broad chest. And then was pressed right up against Steve, looking up into Steve’s eyes, and Bucky didn’t want to move.

Steve didn’t pull away. His hand was a warm and steady pressure against the small of Bucky’s back, and his expression was a mixture of wonderment and confusion. 

“Bucky,” he said, and his voice was low and tentative. “Bucky.”

Oh, God, Bucky wanted to kiss him. He wanted to twine his arms around Steve’s neck and touch their lips together. He wanted it so badly. And it would be so easy.

Steve’s eyes were focused on Bucky’s lips, and he swallowed hard. _Hell with it_ , thought Bucky, _Hell with it all, I just have to **know**_ , and he slid his fingers up into the short hair at Steve’s nape.

There was a burst of loud laughter from one of the apartments overlooking the courtyard, and the moment was shattered. Steve pulled away and stared down at the cobblestones, rubbing the back of his neck self-consciously and refusing to meet Bucky’s eyes. Bucky felt cold and bereft. He wanted to be back in Steve’s arms, basking in his warmth. 

“Steve,” he said, and hated how tentative and uncertain his own voice sounded. “Steve, I -”

“We should go back,” said Steve, still keeping his eyes on the ground. “It’s late.”

He left the courtyard without looking back. Bucky watched him walk away into the distance, and had never felt so alone. 

* * *

Bucky did his best to pretend it had never happened. He tried to forget how Steve’s face had looked so soft and open and _happy_ in the dim glow of the Parisian streetlights, and how Steve’s body had felt underneath his hands. He recited fragments of German whenever the image of Steve’s smile flickered in his mind’s eye, and went through the multiplication tables when he thought he heard the sound of Steve’s laughter. He wasn’t surprised when nothing worked. Steve was a part of him, all the way down to his marrow, and nothing would ever drag him out. 

The dreams were the worst of it. He and Steve were always naked, with the lengths of their bodies pressed against each other and their limbs lazily entwined. Their mouths opened and their tongues touched, hot and wet and _perfect_ , and then Bucky would wake up with his cock hard and leaking against his stomach, caught between arousal and shame. It was Steve, and of course Bucky wanted Steve, but the Steve in his dreams wasn’t _his_ Steve, and he should know that. It was just that when they’d danced together in Paris Steve had looked at him exactly the same way his sweet, small Steve used to in Brooklyn, and it was enough to turn his insides into a twisted mess of confusion and desire. 

He didn’t know what to do with it. So he went on keeping everything locked away and repressed, and focused on being nothing other than Steve’s best friend and second in command. He seemed to be doing a pretty good job of it, too. The Commandos went on clearing out HYDRA bases like a well-oiled machine, and if there were times when Steve looked at Bucky like he was on the verge of wanting to say something, Bucky pretended not to notice. 

The last days of summer faded into autumn’s wet, miserable chilliness, and then winter was upon them. Hitler’s forces launched a fierce offensive attack in the Ardennes, and the SSR sent Captain America and his Commandos into the snow covered forest to offer what assistance they could. Bucky hated it. He _remembered_ the Battle of the Bulge, the fear and cold and exhaustion that had seeped into his bones, and getting captured and marched away to Berga. He couldn’t shake the sense of impending doom that being back in Belgian woods brought him, the terror that he was going to end up a POW all over again. When they made camp at night he didn’t sleep, just stared into the darkness and tried to breathe through the memories.

They’d been in Belgium for five days when Steve laid his bedroll out next to Bucky’s. He pressed as close to Bucky’s body as he could get with the intervening layers of fabric, and his miraculous new body gave off enough heat that Bucky could feel it. He didn’t even try to deny how comforting it was, just took a deep, shuddering breath and finally let himself drift off. 

They didn’t have the chance to catch more than a few hours’ sleep on a good night, but Bucky still woke up feeling rested. Sometime during the night he and Steve had shifted around until they were facing each other, so close that Bucky could count the eyelashes that were lying across Steve’s cheekbones. They were starting to flutter as Steve drifted toward wakefulness. Bucky remembered all the times he’d watched Steve wake up in their tiny Brooklyn apartment, and his heart ached at how familiar the sight was.

Steve’s eyes opened and he stared at Bucky, smiling drowsily. “Better?” he asked, his voice rough with sleep. 

Bucky exhaled. “Yeah,” he confirmed. “Thanks.”

His fragile bubble of contentment remained intact for seven days. The Commandos made it through every skirmish with nothing more than minor scrapes, and every night Bucky fell asleep with Steve’s solid bulk pressed up against him. It was a constant reminder that this was different than the first time in the Bulge, when he’d been far from home without Steve at his back, and every day a little more of the fear that had been locked around his heart receded. He let himself think that they’d get through this, win the war and go back to Brooklyn, and even if he and Steve could never be more than best friends, at least he’d have that much.

And then they received the order from Colonel Phillips stating that they were going to be airlifted to Switzerland to complete a high priority mission, and to be ready by 0600 hours. 

Just a few days ago Bucky would have been more than happy to get out of the Ardennes and its overlay of terrible memories. Now he would give anything to be able to stay. As soon as he heard Steve give them their orders he felt his body grow cold all over, like he stood poised at the precipice of disaster. He wanted to grab Steve and say, _Tell him no, we can’t do this one, something’s wrong_. Except he couldn’t. All he had was a hunch that something was wrong, and high level operations weren’t called off because of hunches.

But when the strut he was clinging to broke and he plummeted down, down, down; the one thought racing through his mind was that if he had to be right, at least this time he was the one who would die.

  
****

****

* * *

_Wake up._

The Soldier’s eyes shifted beneath closed lids, and his lips parted to draw breath into his lungs. His heartbeat was beginning to quicken, pumping warm blood through his veins, and the fingers of his right hand twitched. Awareness returned slowly It always did, when he was being thawed out after months or even years of being frozen.

“Almost there. Raise the temperature by another .5 degrees.”

“Yes, sir.”

The Soldier could feel all of his extremities. His eyes opened just enough to reveal slits of slate blue, blinked once, then opened fully. He looked dispassionately out at the cluster of people standing outside of the cryochamber: two scientists in their white coats, a guard with his finger on the trigger of his rifle, and a man with sandy hair dressed impeccably in a three piece suit. The scientists had beads of sweat on their foreheads and their pupils were dilated. They would be unable to defend themselves if he chose to attack, and they knew it. The guard was tense, but his eyes were alert and his hands were comfortable on his weapon. He’d been well-trained, and might be able to slow the Soldier down if the Soldier proved uncooperative.

They were irrelevant. The Soldier dismissed them. He focused all of his attention on the man in the suit. The Soldier did not recognize him, but he knew instinctively that this was the only one in the room who mattered. This man was one of the Heads, and therefore someone the Soldier must obey.

“What is my mission?” he asked, the Russian flowing easily off his tongue. He had twelve languages stored inside his brain, ready to be accessed when he needed them, but the Russian always came first once the ice gave up its grasp.

The man in the suit smiled. “English, Soldier. You’re in America, after all.” He stepped forward, close enough that the Soldier could reach out and close his metal hand around his vulnerable throat. “Ten miles outside of Washington DC, to be precise.”

The guard shifted, fingers tightening on his weapon. “Director Pierce,” he said. “It’s not advisable to get so close.”

“Nonsense,” said the man; said _Director Pierce_ , and the pathways in his temporal lobe were firing away at the sound of that title, reaffirming the need to _obey obey obey_. “The asset knows its place.” He looked directly at the Soldier and smiled. “Isn’t that right?”

“What is my mission?” asked the Soldier again, this time in flawless English, and Director Pierce threw his head back and laughed.

* * *

The blonde man was a challenge. Some targets were never aware they were in his sights, some lacked the skill to even try to defend themselves, and very few were at least able to put up a fight. No one had ever been his equal. But this man matched him blow for blow, strong and fast and fierce, and it made the Soldier’s blood sing.

He had been cold for so long. The man with the shield made him feel warm.

And then the target’s fingers were tugging at his mask, and he felt it fall away as he hit the ground and rolled. 

“Bucky?” said the target. His guard was down, the blue and white shield hanging limply from his arm as he stared at the Soldier. It would be easy to shoot him now. Easy to finish the mission.

He raised his arm, finger on the trigger. And hesitated.

That moment of hesitation cost him. Something slammed into him from above, knocking him off balance. The opportunity to shoot slipped away. He stumbled back to his feet and looked back, but he could already hear his own backup approaching. Disengage. 

The Soldier turned and ran, his body automatically returning him to his handlers, but that single word was still echoing through his skull.

_Bucky?_

* * *

Alexander Pierce’s hand slapped across his face, sharp and stinging. The Soldier barely noticed.

He’d _known_ the target. He shouldn’t have. It was impossible. HYDRA determined what knowledge and memories he should and should not retain, and the Soldier knew better than to question their judgement. They would never have allowed him to retain anything that might compromise his efficacy as their weapon, and he had been compromised as soon as the target spoke.

And yet the Soldier knew him, all the way down to his bones. It was undeniable. He could hear the lie in Pierce’s voice when the Director said the Soldier encountered him on a previous mission, nothing more than that.

HYDRA was a nest of liars he thought, sharp and sudden. A nest of liars, and he wanted to destroy them all.

“Wipe him,” said Pierce.

And no, he didn’t want that, he wanted to _remember_ , but he could hear the sharp whine of electricity as the helmet started to descend. His breathing began to speed up in panic. 

The pain hit all at once, burning through his nerves. His muscles locked up in protest, and he bit down on the mouth guard as his consciousness started to shatter and crack.

_Steve_ , he thought, the name coming to him just before the world dissolved into static. 

* * *

“I’m with you ‘til the end of the line,” said the target, and that name came screaming back to the forefront of his broken mind: _Steve._

_Steve_ , he thought, and his mind stuttered and froze. 

His body physically strained against his orders, urging him to _stop_ even as his hand came up, ready to pound into the target’s face and neutralize him. _No_ , he thought. _No._

It was already too late. The helicarrier was crumbling around them, and the target _(SteveSteveSteve)_ was falling down into the Potomac, slipping through the Soldier’s fingers. 

He had a sudden flash of what seemed like a memory: Steve dead, and the pain of that knowledge burning through his veins and into his marrow, rendering him helpless. His mind froze in denial. _No, never again_. He couldn’t lose Steve again.

The Soldier jumped from the ruins of Project Insight and reached for Captain America’s sinking body.

* * *

The memories began to resurface in earnest almost immediately after his failure to complete the mission.

At first they were nothing more than flashes. Some were good: licking sticky sweet ice cream off his fingers while the warm summer sun beat down on his head. His feet flying across a wood dance floor while music thrummed through his veins. Passing a stick of cotton candy back and forth with a girl a few years younger than him, and his mouth stretching in a smile when she laughed. Then there were the others: seeing blood and brain matter spattered across the floor beneath his feet and feeling nothing other than the satisfaction of a completed mission. A woman’s dark eyes staring at him over the barrel of his gun, proud and unafraid. _Go ahead and do it_ , she’d said. _You’re nothing but a slave_.

The memories that involved the target were always the clearest. His hand on a thin and frail chest, counting each slow heartbeat and praying _Not today, not today, not today_. Amazement tinged with something like dismay when he first saw a body that had inexplicably grown big and strong and near invincible. Heart stuttering at the sweep of long lashes against a cheekbone.

The way the target’s lips had felt beneath his, the first time he dared to kiss him -

His mind shuddered and went still. There was something there that didn’t match up, even beyond seventy years of what the chair had done. It felt...not _wrong_ , not exactly. But different. 

It might warrant further investigation.

It had been six hours and thirty minutes since he’d left the target on the riverbank. He hadn’t known what he should do after such a spectacular failure, so he defaulted to what he’d always done at the end of a mission: retreat and await extraction. The Alexandria safehouse was empty when he showed up, but that wouldn’t last. HYDRA might have temporarily fled the hot zone around the ruined Triskelion, but they’d be back. He probably had another four hours at most before they came to retrieve their asset. 

They would take him, and turn him back into their empty shell. _Nothing but a slave._

_No_ , thought the Soldier. _No_. He did not want to be wiped, or to go back on ice. The memories were still so fragile, but they were _his_. He realized he did not want to lose them. 

His mission now was to avoid capture. He reached up with his flesh hand and brushed the nape of his neck, felt the transmitter embedded under the skin. Embedding it in the arm must have been too risky: if the arm malfunctioned, the transmitter might also be compromised. No matter. It was easy enough to slide tip of his knife beneath the skin and dig it out.

There were civilian clothes folded neatly inside utilitarian metal chests. The Soldier selected jeans, a long sleeved shirt, and a sweatshirt. They were unremarkable, and would hide his arm. He stripped out of his body armor and let it fall onto the floor, next to the bloody microchip, then pulled on the new clothes. They were soft and comfortable, and he let himself indulge in the sensation just for a second. 

There was no time to linger. He filled his pockets with cash from the safe, looked at the armor and microchip lying on the concrete floor, and left.

Seven hours since the helicarriers fell. Smoke was still rising from the ruins of the Triskelion, ugly and dark against the pink and orange DC sunset, and his body had been awake for thirteen hours. He was tired. He shouldn’t be. He had been engineered to remain awake for long periods of time, and his handlers had always kept him on such a tightly regulated schedule. Defrost, followed by mission prep, followed by fieldwork. Retrieval. Back into the tank. He was never out of the ice long enough even for his enhanced body to require sleep: unconsciousness only came from being frozen or through drugs. 

He wanted to sleep now. He was so tired he could barely keep his eyes open. By the time the sun set it was all he could do just to put one foot in front of the other, and he finally gave in to his body’s clamoring demand for rest. He curled up beneath the doorway of one of DC’s staid old churches, tucked all of his limbs in tight, and squeezed his eyes shut. No one looked at him. With his metal arm concealed he became nothing more than just another homeless person: trash, a nuisance, something for people’s eyes to slide over before they became too uncomfortable. 

He closed his eyes and fell into a real sleep for the first time in decades.

* * *

Awareness returned all at once, his instincts warning him that it was time to go. He could still hear the sound of sirens in the distance, close to the riverbank, but he was in still an eerie pocket of silence. It wouldn't last. He’d been overlooked so far in the initial chaos, but the authorities would be moving to monitor the streets more closely. Staying here wasn't safe.

He got to his feet and evaluated his condition. His memories felt more solid. They were no longer like fragments of a dream; they felt tangible, heavy with the weight of the truth. That must have been why his handlers were so careful to deny him sleep, he realized. Sleep repaired the brain and his time in the Chair had been a carefully monitored form of brain damage. They wouldn’t have wanted their work undone.

He considered the implications. If he continued to allow himself sleep, more memories would return. And once he had enough, maybe he would learn why there was something in those memories that still felt strange - not _wrong_ , exactly, but strange. 

The Soldier - no, he wasn’t the Soldier anymore, but he couldn’t be _Bucky_ , not yet, so maybe _James_ would suffice - got to his feet. His body was sore, but functional. He thought of the target - of _Steve_ \- and felt a bone deep longing to seek him out and press their bodies together, find comfort and hope and redemption. It wasn’t time for that, though, at least not yet.

There was work to be done.

* * *

It took three months.

In a base just outside of Sopron, James put a bullet straight between the eyes of the last remaining HYDRA technician and watched dispassionately as the body fell to the floor. He wondered if he was supposed to feel something right now - satisfaction, maybe, or relief. Anything other than the dull exhaustion that pulled at his senses.

Six bases in five different countries lay in ruins behind him. All together they were nothing more than a fraction of HYDRA’s European presence, but they were the bases that had been equipped with versions of the Chair. He could remember being strapped down to each and every one of them, the fear that rose up in him whenever the restraints were fastened around his wrists. The way the scientists looked at him with clinical detachment, like he was nothing more than a machine to be programmed.

Now all of them were dead. 

He lifted his eyes from the corpse and stared down the short corridor into the base’s inner sanctum. He could see the metal of the Chair gleaming faintly in the emergency lighting, and even that was enough to raise his heart rate and make his breath speed up. It didn’t matter that all the scientists and doctors and technicians that had manipulated it were dead. It was the Chair that still haunted his dreams.

One of life’s little jokes was that he remembered the Chair with absolute clarity, but so many of the memories he actually wanted were nothing more than faded watercolors.

The scientist’s head was surrounded by a crimson halo of blood. He stepped over it and walked down the narrow corridor until he stood before the beast itself. He stared down at its lifeless body, his flesh and metal hands clenched into fists at his sides and the blood throbbing urgently in his temples.

The sound of his breathing was loud and harsh in the deathly silence. Then his left arm lashed out, tearing at the delicate electronics that had sent electricity lashing through his brain and caused him so much misery. He kicked the padded seat until the entire contraption began to wobble, then tore at the padding with his fingers until blood was oozing from beneath his fingertips. He could hear screams being torn out of his throat, seventy years worth of fear and anger and hate given voice at last.

When he finally stopped his throat was raw and there were tears stinging his eyes. He set the charges and left the darkness of the base behind him, refusing to turn around even when he heard the dull rumble of the explosions. He’d seen enough HYDRA bases burn. Now all he wanted was to walk away.

He made it back to Sopron just after sundown. The hotel he checked into was small and dingy, one of the old Soviet apartment buildings that now played host to tourists who were on a budget. The showers had hot water, though, and he let it pour down over his shoulders for a sufficiently self-indulgent length of time before padding back to his room to stretch out on the hard mattress. He could hear the sounds of traffic drifting in through the window, and a television from across the hall. Someone was shouting a few rooms away. He closed his eyes and listened to the sounds of the city, letting himself fall into a light doze while he waited. 

A few hours had passed when he heard footsteps in the hall. No attempt at stealth whatsoever, even though James knew their owner was capable of moving silently when the situation called for it. Steve was doing this to let James know he was coming, and give James the chance to slip out of the window if he wanted to. He’d done that before, once in Istanbul and once near Brasov, but this time he stayed still on the bed. He kept his eyes shut even when he heard the door open and the footsteps enter the room, come closer and closer until they stopped next to the bed.

“I know you’re awake,” said Steve after a moment, his voice so soft James could barely hear it even with his enhanced hearing. The mattress dipped as Steve sat down beside him, and gentle fingers touched his hair. “Bucky.”

James turned his head and opened his eyes. Steve’s hand slid down to cup his cheek. His palm was warm and soft, and oh, _oh_ , there it was, the love searing through Bucky’s neural pathways and sparking through his veins. His brain had been steadily repairing itself ever since the cycles of wiping and freezing ended, the memories drifting back in varying degrees of intensity, but seeing Steve again was _visceral_. It woke him up in a way nothing else ever could. 

_Of course_ , he thought. _Of course_. Seeing Steve even in his brainwashed, frozen state had been enough to start dragging the tattered shreds of his memory back from the brink. Now that he had almost managed to come back to himself it made perfect sense that Steve was the final piece of the puzzle.

He looked at Steve and knew him down to his bones. He remembered the tiny slip of a thing from Brooklyn, full of piss and vinegar and ready to take on the world, and remembered a tall, strong hero that was a myth given flesh. And he remembered… no, not remembered. He _knew_ that there were two Steves, and he’d loved both of them in equal measure. One of them was lost to him forever, dead and gone in some other world; the other was looking down on him with fear and worry and love.

“Bucky?” said Steve again. “Bucky, do you,” Steve’s throat bobbed as he swallowed, “do you know who I am?”

“ _Steve_ ,” breathed James, and put his flesh hand over Steve’s. He tried to breathe through the flood of memories triggered by the touch. Becca telling him Steve was dead. Falling in front of a train in New York. The world falling apart around them, then coalescing into something new. Steve, tall and strong and alive.

It was the final piece, the last awful truth. And now he could never forget it.

Both of Steve’s hands were on him now, his thumbs stroking across James’ cheekbones. “Bucky,” he was saying, low and urgent. “Bucky. Are you with me? Can you come back to me?” His fingers tightened in Bucky’s hair. “ _Bucky_.”

James stared mutely up at Steve. He’d never told Steve that he was nothing but an imposter. Steve had come all this way for him, even after everything James had done, and he wasn’t even Steve’s Bucky. He was just a flawed copy, who had been too weak to resist HYDRA when his counterpart had died trying. Steve deserved better.

He licked his lips. Swallowed. The desire to tell Steve the whole terrible truth was filling his chest, forcing the confession to the tip of his tongue. “Steve,” he began, and then stopped.

Even the dim orange glow from the streetlights was enough to let him see the mixture of bone-deep exhaustion and hope that was etched across Steve’s face. And James couldn’t beat him down any more than he already had. He _couldn’t_. So he took the coward’s way out.

“I don’t want to run anymore,” he said. “I’m so tired.”

Steve’s hands were impossibly gentle as the traced James’ eyebrows and the curve of his nose. He was treating James like he was something precious. not like the weak willed liar James knew himself to be. He felt a curl of shame low in his belly. He didn’t deserve Steve, but he couldn’t bring himself to push Steve away, not when every part of him yearned for Steve’s touch. 

“Okay, Buck,” said Steve. “We’ll get some sleep and leave first thing in the morning.”

James shifted until his back was pressed against the wall and Steve stretched out alongside him, careful to put as much space between them as the narrow mattress allowed. James hesitated, then wrapped his right hand around Steve’s bicep. Tugged.

“Closer,” he said.

Steve’s eyes were luminous in the darkness. “I don’t want to make you feel trapped.”

“You won’t.” James was weak, so weak, but he couldn’t stop himself. “Steve, _please_.”

Steve let his breath out in a huff. “Are you sure?” he asked. “I would never do anything you don’t want.”

“I know that.” James’ fingers tightened on Steve’s arm. “ _Steve_.”

The world held its breath. Then Steve draped his arm over James’ shoulders and pulled them close together. James pressed his face into the crook of Steve’s neck and breathed deep. He _remembered_ that smell, and everything it meant: safety and love and home. It was the best thing in the world.

He shut his eyes and, with Steve’s breath brushing softly against his ear, slept. 

* * *

When they left the hotel the next morning, a dark skinned man and a woman with hair like fire were waiting outside. James hung back, awkward and uncertain while Steve rushed forward to throw his arms around them. 

James remembered them. The man had been there during that last awful mission, when Bucky had torn the wings off his back, and the woman… he frowned. His recollections of his time with HYDRA were broken and disjointed, probably because his brain had been too damaged to create many new memories, but he could sense her drifting through him. As an ally, for a little while. And then as an adversary.

Now she was Steve’s ally, and James supposed that made them allies as well.

“Bucky.” Steve was gesturing him forward. “Bucky, these are -

“Your backup,” said James. 

“My _friends_. Although backup’s not wrong.” 

James approached, stopping just out of arm’s reach. The man - Sam Wilson, according to Steve - smiled, but there was an edge to it. He knew what James was capable of, and wasn’t going to let his guard down. Good. He couldn’t read Natasha Romanov’s face at all. She eyed him in silence, taking his measure.

James eyed her back. She was small and slender, but he could see how she carried herself: calm and focused, ready to react. “You knew where I was?” he asked her in Russian, ignoring the way Steve shifted and Wilson’s eyebrows raised. “You were watching?”

“We were watching Steve,” she answered. “He needs someone watching his back, don’t you think?”

“Yes.” Steve had always needed someone on his six. If Romanov understood that as well, they would get along just fine. He extended his flesh hand to her, palm up, and she took it with a small smile. Her could feel the strength in her grip and the calluses on her palm It was the hand of someone used to combat.

“Right,” said Steve, “so now that we all know each other -”

“The jet’s waiting,” said Romanov, cutting him off. “We’re going back to New York.”

“New York?” asked James, just as Steve said, "So Stark said yes?". 

“It’s the best option,” said Romanov. “And Tony's a pragmatist. Of course he said yes."

“Stark?” said James, frowning. He remembered Howard Stark from the SSR, whip thin and ferociously clever, and always dressed sharp as could be. He’d also learned quite a bit about the man’s son over the past few months. A love of the limelight seemed to run in the family. 

“Tony,” answered Steve. “Howard’s son. He’s…well. He can take some getting used to, but he’s good to have in a fight.”

Romanov made a noise that sounded suspiciously like a snort. 

“He’s not so bad,” said Wilson, grinning easily at James. “He fixed my wings for me, and they’re better than they’ve ever been.”

James dropped his eyes. He opened his mouth to offer some sort of inadequate apology, but Wilson was already waving it away.

“Don’t say anything, man.” His smile turned sharp. “Just don’t do it again.” 

“Not that this isn’t heartwarming, but we do, in fact, need to move.” Romanov linked her arm with Wilson and set off down the street, glancing back over her shoulder. “Come on, children,” she called. “Hurry it up.”

James stared after her. “I think I like her,” he said.

“She’s my friend, and I’m hers,” said Steve, “and that’s no small thing.” He looked at James. “So. Ready to go?”

_No_. The denial pushed up against the back of James’ teeth but he swallowed and forced it back. “Yes,” he said instead.

Only he had never been able to fool Steve. “We don’t have to,” he said. “We can stay in Europe, if you want, find a place just for us. We don’t have to go anywhere you don't want to.”

James felt his heart turn over in his chest at how easily Steve said _we_ , like it wasn’t even a question. For Steve, it probably wasn’t. It was tempting to tell Steve that he wanted it to be just the two of them, without anyone else...but no. Steve needed a team. He’d loved the Commandos like family, and now he had Wilson and Romanov, and even, apparently, a Stark. James didn’t want to deny them to Steve. He just wanted Steve to be happy.

“I might not be ready,” said James, “but I’m tired. So let’s go.” He hurried to catch up to Wilson and Romanov, refusing to look back at Steve. 

It would be better for everyone if he stayed here in the shadows. He was a liar and a fake, a poor copy of what Steve deserved, but James had never claimed to be a good man. If he were, he’d let Steve go. But he wasn’t, and he couldn’t bring himself to lose Steve willingly, not when he’d seen and touched him again. Even if it would be for the best. 

* * *

Stark - no, _Avengers_ \- Tower was not what he’d expected.

He’d been expecting confinement. No matter what Steve and Romanov told him on the flight back to the USA, he’d expected to get thrown into a cell and never allowed to see sunlight again. It would be better than the icy sickness of the cryotank, but it would still be a prison. He knew better than to expect anything else - Steve might have a blind spot when it came to him, but surely no one else would be that stupid. He was a threat, and threats needed to be dealt with appropriately.

As it turned out, his expectations were thwarted at every turn. They weren’t detained as soon as they entered US airspace - it was truly amazing, what money could do - and within twelve hours they were touching down on the roof of Tony Stark’s one hundred story skyscraping monstrosity. Taller than the Empire State building, and wasn’t that something. James figured he could be forgiven if he took a few seconds to gawk in astonishment at the view.

“It’s something, isn’t it?” Tony Stark was there to greet them, his face almost entirely obscured by a pair of large, ostentatious sunglasses that probably cost approximately 1000 times the rent James and Steve used to struggle to pay each month. His tone was light and easy, but James was almost sure that was an act.

One of the memories he _could_ recall from his years as a slave was a car. And Howard Stark.

James looked away from Tony and the judgement he was sure lurked behind the dark lenses. He didn’t say anything.

“It’s cool if you want to be the strong silent type,” said Tony. He pushed his sunglasses up onto his forehead and squinted at him. Surprisingly enough he didn’t look angry, just slightly manic. “You’ll be in good company. Bruce is pretty quiet when he’s not hulking out, and Cap’s not exactly a chatterbox even if he doesn’t have the menacing glare you’ve got going on -”

“ _Tony_.” Steve looked exasperated. “Tony, slow down. This is -”

“James Barnes, got it. Your dearly beloved best friend, back from the dead and with what appears to be a kickass metal arm.” Tony was staring at the appendage with barely concealed delight. “While I am sorry you acquired that under what were doubtless horrific conditions, I’d _love_ to take a look at it. Really. I assure you I can create something vastly better to whatever HYDRA gave you.”

“But you don’t have to,” said Steve quickly. “No one’s going to go poking at your arm if you don’t want them to.”

But when James looked at Tony, he saw a certain measure of understanding lurking beneath the outward cockiness. James remembered what he’d learned about Tony Stark: captured in Afghanistan, tortured, kept alive through machinery. There was a certain kinship between the two of them.

“It doesn’t feel like mine,” said James, trying to explain. “And if I can’t get rid of it, I at least want it to feel like mine.”

Tony nodded, and there was a flash of sympathy in his eyes. “Yeah. I can help with that. You just let me know. Anyway, you probably want to see your floor.”

James blinked. “My _floor_?”

Behind him, Romanov laughed softly. “Tony believes in extravagance,” she said in Russian.

Tony scowled. “Whatever you just said, I’m sure it was an insult. Now come on.” 

When Tony said floor, it turned out he meant floor. There was an entire wall of floor to ceiling windows that let in beautiful golden light and showed off the Manhattan skyline, hardwood floors, and walls that were painted a warm ivory. It was comfortable and luxurious without being extravagant, and James wandered through it slowly, taking it in with Steve at his side while Tony babbled.

“ - can decorate it however you want, I don’t care. If you need anything, just ask JARVIS. Right, I should probably explain JARVIS to you. He’s the AI that runs the entire tower, all you need to do is ask and he’ll get -”

“What’s the catch?” asked James, cutting him off.

Tony blinked. “What’s that, Terminator?”

“It’s nice,” said James. “But it’s still a cell, right?”

“Hey, now,” said Tony. “I’ll have you know there are who people who would kill to live in a cell as nice as this. But there are security measures, yes.” His voice has lost the joking tone, and was unapologetic and honest. “JARVIS will inform us if your behavior becomes erratic enough to pose a threat to yourself or anyone else, and if that happens we’re prepared to contain the situation. But as long as you’re not registering as a threat, you have free reign of the Tower, and can come and go as you please." 

"What we're never going to do," said Steve, "is strap you down into a chair and torture you.” He paused. “Are you worried about what we’ll do to you, or what you can do to others?”

James didn’t have an answer to that. He remembered his metal fist punching Steve’s face, over and over again, and felt sick. 

“We’re not stupid enough to assume you’re not dangerous,” said Tony. “But everyone who lives here is dangerous, and we’re used to having people with enhanced abilities in residence. So we’re not being cavalier about this, but Steve is willing to put himself on the line for you, and that’s enough of a character reference that I’m willing to take a chance on you.”

“There are people you can talk to, if you want,” said Steve. “People who know about deprogramming. They were a part of SHIELD, but they’ve been vetted and they’re clean. No one’s going to make you do anything, but it’s something to think about.”

James head jerked once in assent. Steve’s hand landed on his shoulder and squeezed firmly. 

“We’ll leave you to get settled in, all right?” he said. “Just ask JARVIS if you need anything.”

James watched Steve and Tony retreat back to the small foyer and into the elevator, and then he was alone. 

The silence was crushing. This far above the street he couldn’t hear the sounds of the city. There was no rumble of motors and occasional sharp backfire, no sound of children playing in the alleys, or men sitting smoking cigarettes while they talked. Up here he felt like the only person alive, small and lonely.

He crept slowly through the empty apartment. It was an absurd amount of space, far too much for one person. Maybe it was normal for someone like Tony Stark, who had grown up in mansions, but it was too much for someone who used to share an apartment that would have taken up only a fraction of what was supposed to be his new bedroom.

“JARVIS?” he asked tentatively. “Are you there?”

“I am always present should you acquire assistance, Sergeant Barnes.” The voice came from all around, lightly accented and pleasant, and with only the slightest robotic tinge. It was strangely comforting. 

“Oh. Thank you. Could you tell me where Steve is?”

“Captain Rogers occupies the floor above yours.”

“Am I allowed to go up there?”

“Of course, Sergeant.”

So Tony hadn’t been lying when he said James was free to move around. The elevator delivered to him to Steve’s floor swiftly and without complaint, and James took a few tentative steps into the living area. It was almost as empty as James’ floor. 

_Of course it is_ , he thought. _He was living in DC._

_I shot through the wall of his apartment there._

“Steve?” he called out. “Are you here?”

Steve appeared almost immediately, his face tight with concern. “Bucky? Are you all right?”

“Yeah.” James shrugged. “It’s just...it’s a lot of space, you know?”

Steve’s face softened. “I know what you mean.” His eyes darted around the immense living room, then back at James. “We could maybe stay together? There’s an extra bedroom.”

“Yeah,” said James, sighing in relief. “Yeah, that’d be good.”

That night James curled up under his duvet, thought of Steve breathing in the next room, and felt something that had been wound tightly within him tentatively start to relax. 

* * *

It was all right, living at the Tower. He liked the floor he shared with Steve: big enough that he could hide himself away when he needed to, but small enough that he always knew that Steve was there, and safe. He liked the hours he spent sparring with Romanov - no, _Natasha_ , she was Natasha to him now; they were friends - and the time he spent on her floor drinking tea from an antique Russian samovar. Her partner Clint showed up after he’d been in the Tower for three weeks, and he and James got along surprisingly well. They could challenge each other on the shooting range, and James appreciated how Clint’s sense of humor alternated between wicked and easygoing. 

He agreed to see the therapist. He hadn't really wanted to, not at first, and had only really caved because he knew Steve thought it was a good idea. It turned out she was good for him. The way she tempered compassion and understanding with a refusal to be cowed and a refusal to let himself hide reminded him of Becca, and he wondered with a pang what had happened to her. 

(He told her about HYDRA, and the Soldier, and all the times he killed Steve in his dreams and had to spend the rest of the night crouched outside Steve's door listening to him breathe. He didn't tell her where he really came from. That was his secret, that remained burrowed in his marrow like a cancer.)

Sam was there often, of course, and had informally taken over the floor that was originally supposed to be James’. James liked Sam. He was loyal, brave, and intelligent, and had an instinct for when to push and when to back off. He'd also opened his door to Steve and Natasha when all of HYDRA had been out for their blood, and that in and of itself was enough to earn James' respect. 

James had been at the Tower for two months, slowly learning how to live with himself and how to fit in with all of these others, when he slipped into the elevator and asked for Tony's workshop.

"Of course, Sergeant Barnes," intoned JARVIS, and the elevator started to move. The doors opened seconds later with a soft _ping_ , and James stepped out into a vision of the future that was all sleek lines and gleaming metal. For a brief, horrible second he remembered other labs where the light had shone off of sharp instruments. Then he registered the sound of 20th century rock blaring from the walls, the half empty coffee mugs emblazoned with cartoon characters scattered on surfaces, and the world righted itself.

Tony was in the middle of it all, dressed in a T-shirt and jeans that had clearly seen better days, his hair sticking wildly on end. He looked nothing a HYDRA scientist. "Terminator," he said, sounding equal parts surprised and pleased. "What brings down to my humble little workshop?"

“Hi,” said James, hovering awkwardly just outside the elevator. He extended his arm. “You said you could take a look at this?” 

“Of course.” Tony’s spun around, his fingers banishing and summoning digital screens in rapid succession. “Hope you don’t mind, but I’ve already got some schematics drawn up. I'm a firm believer in the running start, and all that. Come over here and draw up a chair, why don’t you.”

James sat and held out his arm, content to let JARVIS take scans while he stared out at the view. Large, floor-to-ceiling windows were a feature everywhere in the Tower, even here, and James had never been quite so grateful for that. Looking out at the sunlit cityscape reminded him that this wasn’t a HYDRA lab, and Tony wasn’t going to strap him down and tear his brain apart. It helped, too, that buried in the middle of Tony’s constant chatter was information about what he was doing, and why. For once James wasn’t being kept in the dark about what was happening to him.

“So anyway,” said Tony after an hour, “give me about another week and I’ll have the first prototype ready to go. We’ll see how it does in action and go from there. How’s that sound?”

James flexed his fingers. The arm could come _off_. He could be _free_.

“Amazing,” he said, and stood up. Hesitated. The ghosts that neither one of them wanted to acknowledge hovered in the air between them. “Thank you.”

Tony was already engrossed in the data JARVIS had pulled for him, but that made him stop and look up. He met James’ gaze and nodded once, briefly.

“Don’t mention it,” he said. “We all have our debts to pay.”

James turned, his heart thumping painfully in his chest, and hurried back to the safety of the elevator.

* * * 

One week later he returned from the workshop wearing the prototype. It was lightweight and surprisingly elegant, and didn’t pinch his nerves or pull on the muscles of his upper back. The damned red star was gone, too, replaced with the same pattern that was on Steve’s shield. 

“Are you sure?” asked Steve, resting his fingers in the center of the white star.

“Yes,” said James. “I’ve always been sure of you.”

Steve’s face broke into a wide smile, and for the first time since the helicarriers, James wanted desperately to be _Bucky_ again.

* * *

The last of the Avengers he met was Thor.

Steve and Sam were out on an assignment together, and Bucky had padded down to the common floor to make lunch and maybe watch a movie. Natasha and Clint were still around, so there was a chance the two of them would show up. Bucky didn’t worry when Steve was gone, or not excessively so - he trusted Sam to watch Steve’s back, at least until he was ready to go back out on assignments - but he didn’t like being alone in their shared apartment. All that empty space made it made it too easy for him to get lost in his own thoughts.

He was just cutting his sandwich in half when the elevator dinged softly. He looked up, already starting to call out a greeting to Nat, and his voice stopped in his throat. 

He’d seen pictures of Thor before, but even if he hadn't, there was no mistaking him for anyone else. What the pictures failed to convey was his _presence_ , the way that the room instantly seemed far too small to contain him, like - _like lightning in a bottle_ , thought Bucky, and wanted to laugh. Cliches, as it turned out, were sometimes true.

Thor’s eyes fell on him, and although he ruled thunder, his smile was like the sun.

“You are Steve’s shield brother,” he said, and he crossed the room in a few swift strides to clasp Bucky’s forearms. His skin was even warmer than Steve’s. “It is an honor to meet you. I am Thor of Asgard.”

“Likewise,” said Bucky. He had no idea what the proper etiquette for addressing a god was, even if that god was technically just a member of a highly advanced alien race and not immortal.

Thor was examining him closely, the hint of a frown hovering at the corners of his mouth. That was enough to set Bucky’s nerves jangling. Did Thor see something in him that Steve and the others had missed, or were deliberately blind to…? 

Thor’s hand slid up across his flesh arm to frame his face. His touch was surprisingly gentle.

“My friend,” said Thor, and his voice held the same inexorable cadence as waves pounding on the shore, “my friend, you have traveled far.”

Bucky knew immediately that he wasn’t just referring to his unnaturally long lifetime, which had taken him from Brooklyn to Europe and now back to Manhattan. Somehow, Thor had looked at Bucky and _knew_.

“Yes,” he said. And then, “I’m sorry.”

“Why?” asked Thor. “It is a remarkable thing, to make such a journey.”

“It’s not,” said Bucky, and his voice caught in his throat. He felt his face grow hot with shame. He’d been feeling more and more like Bucky, like the Bucky Steve remembered, except it was always tempered by a sickening edge of guilt. He didn’t deserve to be Steve’s Bucky, not ever again. He should have died a universe away, and if he had Steve would never have been shot by his best friend.

“No?” asked Thor. “And why not?”

“Because I made everything _worse_ ,” said Bucky, and to his horror felt his eyes beginning to sting.

Thor’s broad shoulders lifted in a shrug. “That is not for us to say.” The frown was gone from his eyes, and now Bucky could see nothing in the god’s face other than deep compassion. “But I believe I can tell you this much. I have lived for more than one thousand years, and I have seen less than a score of beings who have made a journey such as you.”

Bucky remained silent. Thor’s thumb swiped slowly across his cheek. It was gentle, a touch meant to soothe a child.

“Even those of us on Asgard do not understand all of the universe’s workings,” he said. “We do know, however, that it will always attempt to balance itself. If you were brought here, it was for a purpose. It is not as simple as making things better or worse. You are simply where you are meant to be.”

Bucky dropped his eyes to the floor and didn’t answer. 

“Think on it,” said Thor, and stepped away. “Now, then. My lady Jane has not yet arrived in New York, and I would welcome your company in the meantime. I find your Midgardian television programs to be quite enjoyable.”

Natasha and Clint showed up when they were an hour into a _Star Trek: Deep Space Nine_ marathon. Three hours later Steve, Sam, and Jane arrived at the same time and found the three of them plus Tony each holding a giant bowl of popcorn and debating the merits versus demerits of _Voyager_.

Steve smiled when he saw them, wide and bright, and Bucky looked away.

Thor had said, _You are simply where you are meant to be_. Bucky found that hard to believe.

* * *

Thor’s words burrowed deep into his brain. He turned them over and over in his thoughts while he lay in his bed at night, and when he watched Steve make breakfast. He felt the truth pressing up behind his teeth, threatening to break free, and it was becoming increasingly difficult to swallow it back. 

His therapist said he was making good progress, and that he should be able to go on missions soon. Bucky smiled, gritted his teeth, and felt the guilt bearing down on him.

The truth finally burst free on a cold, rainy Tuesday afternoon ten months after the helicarriers fell into the Potomac. Steve was sprawled out on the couch reading while Bucky stood at the kitchen island making lunch. He looked over at Steve, saw how relaxed and comfortable he was, and couldn't hold back any longer. He stepped out of the kitchen and stopped in front of the couch. Steve looked up at him and smiled, sweet and trusting.

“Hey, Buck,” he said. “What’s up?”

“Steve,” said Bucky. “I need you to listen to me. Don’t say anything, all right? Just listen.”

Steve opened his mouth like he wanted to protest, then snapped it shut and nodded. He put his book aside and leaned forward, elbows on his knees, and fixed the full force of his open, earnest gaze on Bucky.

It was unbearable. Bucky turned away. There was no way he could tell the truth if he kept looking at Steve. He walked over to the giant picture windows that dominated their living room and stared out at the glass and steel skyscrapers. It really was a tremendous view. He and Steve could never have imagined living in a place like this, back when they were barely making the rent for their rented rooms in a Brooklyn flophouse.

“I’m not who you think I am,” he said.

Behind him Steve made a soft sound, like he’d started to say something and then stopped. Probably yet another variation on the theme of, _What you did wasn’t really you and it’s not your fault_. Bucky took a deep breath and continued.

“The Bucky you grew up with died in 1943 on Zola’s operating table,” he said, and then, “and the Steve Rogers I grew up with died of pneumonia in 1945.”

He kept his eyes fixed on the panorama of New York as he told Steve everything. How he’d lost himself after his Steve died, and found himself in this other world. How he’d watched Bucky die, and Zola experimented on him instead. How he’d made the decision not to tell Steve, so that he could spare him the pain Bucky felt when he’d heard his Steve was dead. 

And then, finally, the crux of the matter.

“This is all my fault,” he said. He could see storm clouds gathering in the distance. “Your Bucky wouldn’t have let HYDRA turn him into a weapon. I think that maybe he died because he couldn’t be twisted like that. I could be, though, because I’m _wrong_ , and I don’t belong here.”

“Bucky,” said Steve. 

“Don’t talk. I’m not done.” The rain was starting to come down. Down below, Bucky could see a multitude of brightly colored umbrellas unfurling one after another. “Zola knew. The first time he saw me back in ‘43, he was smiling. He said it wasn’t a coincidence that I was there.

“But the worst thing,” he said, “is that I can’t even regret it, at least not entirely. Losing you was the worst thing in the world, Stevie, you don’t even _know_.” His voice broke. He swallowed hard took a deep breath before pressing on. “And so seeing you here alive makes everything worth it. I was too weak to hold out against HYDRA, but at least I got to see you again.” 

He finally turned to face Steve. In the dim light he looked almost fragile, like the Steve Bucky remembered from long ago and a world away.

“I love you.” As soon as the words left his mouth he felt simultaneously relieved and gutted, unsure if he wanted to laugh with relief or break down in tears. “I thought at first it was just because I was missing what I’d lost, but that’s not true. I don’t think there could ever be a world where I don’t love you.”

The only sound in the wake of his confession was the pattering of rain against the glass. Steve’s lips were slightly parted, his expression something Bucky couldn’t quite discern. Wonderment, maybe. Or horror. 

It was difficult to breathe. Bucky’s skin itched with the need to be somewhere else, away from Steve and his unreadable eyes and the weight of his decades old confession hanging between them. He averted his eyes and made for the door.

Steve didn’t try to stop him.

* * *

His feet took him to Coney Island. The cold and rain meant that it was almost completely abandoned except for him and the kids staffing the booths, but Bucky didn’t care. He just wanted to stand on the pier, look out at the storm tossed waves, and think about nothing at all. 

He didn’t know how long he’d been there when he heard someone come up behind him, their tread heavy on the weather-beaten boards. He didn’t need to turn around to know it was Steve. 

“You always know where to find me,” he said. He kept his eyes fixed on the waves, watching they swelled, peaked, then frothed against the sand. “Even when you should leave well enough alone.”

Steve stood next to Bucky and bumped their shoulders together lightly. “Oh come on, Buck, coming here? This is just asking to be found.”

“Guess so.” Bucky ducked his head and let his hair fall forward, hiding him away. He felt vulnerable and raw, unsure if he wanted to turn and cling to Steve or run straight into the ocean and let the waves wash him away.

They stood in silence for a minute, listening to the rhythm of the waves punctuated by the soft pattering of raindrops on the boards of the pier. “I always knew you were different after I dragged you out of that HYDRA base,” said Steve finally. “There were small things. You’d look so lost sometimes, like you didn’t know where you were. I thought it was because of what happened with Zola. PTSD, is what they call it now." 

Bucky glanced over at him. Steve’s eyes were fixed on the horizon, and he was worrying at his lower lip with his teeth. Bucky wanted to close the distance between them and swipe his tongue over the bite marks, soothe the sting away. 

“Thor knew the first time we met,” he said instead. “He said something about the universe needing to keep itself in balance.”

“He’s probably right.” 

“No.” Bucky shook his head. “No, it was nothing but a horrible mistake.”

“ _Bucky_. I listened to you, now you have to listen to me.” Steve shifted until he was standing in front of Bucky, and rested his big hands on Bucky’s shoulders. “What you said back there, about you becoming the Winter Soldier because there’s something wrong with you? Not true. HYDRA was always going to create the Winter Soldier. You know that. And, God help me for saying for this, but I’m grateful it was you. Not because you deserved to suffer, but because no one else would have been strong enough resist.”

Bucky couldn’t help laughing, low and ugly. “But I _didn’t_.”

“I was your mission. You could have killed me on the helicarrier, or left me to drown. But you didn’t.” Steve’s eyes were fixed on Bucky’s. “Can’t you see? I’m alive because it was _you_. You think the universe gave you to Zola because you were weak, or twisted, but that’s not it at all. The universe sent you here because you’re strong. You were strong enough to remember love even after seventy years of torture and brainwashing.” 

Steve’s fingers tightened. “I love you,” he said, soft and serious, “and I’d really like for us to figure out what we can be here and now. I’d like for us to try and figure this out together.” His cheeks flushed and he looked down. Uncertain and shy, like his Steve had looked the first time he kissed Bucky. “If you want to, I mean.” 

And oh, Bucky did, more than anything. Except. “I’m not your Bucky,” he said, blinking away the hot sting of tears. “I’m not.” 

“You are,” said Steve. “You’re the Bucky who fought with me in Europe, and the Bucky who tried to teach me to dance in Paris, and the Bucky who saved me. Of course you’re my Bucky. And I love you. There’s no universe where I don’t.” He dropped his hands and stepped back, leaving Bucky bereft and cold. 

“But I'm leaving the decision of where we go now up to you,” he said, and waited.

The world held its breath. Bucky looked at Steve and, just for a second, the world shifted and blurred. His saw his first Steve standing there, framed by the ocean’s vastness, fragile and smiling and alive. Their eyes met through the veil of time and space, and Bucky knew this was their goodbye, the one they should have had seventy-one years ago and a world away. Then the moment faded and it was just Steve before him, with raindrops clinging to his eyelashes and a tentative smile on his face. The Steve Bucky had fought with, and died for. The one he would always fight for.

And stepping forward was the easiest thing in the world.


	2. Alternate Opening

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This may or may not be of interest to anyone, but this was the original opening scene. I ended up changing it because the overall trajectory of the story started to drag, but I still rather like it, and in some ways prefer it to the revised opening.

Bucky got his letter from the United States Military telling him to go off and shoot and get shot at in March of 1943, but that wasn’t the letter that destroyed his life. He didn’t get that one until more than a year later, August 1944, just after the Allies had liberated Marseilles.

He was drinking wine in some little hole-in-the-wall tavern with Dugan and Ralston and one of the French infantrymen - Dernier, that was his name, and he was one hell of a fighter - and for the first time since landing in Europe, Bucky was feeling optimistic. They were well on their way to pushing the Nazis out of France, the wine was good (he would’ve thought it was impossible to get anything that wasn’t vinegar, surely the Germans would’ve taken it all, but Dernier had laughed and said, “We French, we have our ways”), and he could relax in good company without worrying about getting shot. Marseilles itself was nice, too, with its old-world grandeur that even the war hadn’t quite managed to destroy, and the bright blue water of the Mediterranean lapping up against it. Maybe he’d take Steve here someday, after they won the war. Steve would love it - he’d want to sketch everything, and maybe try working with oils or pastels. Bucky would make sure to get him some. They’d come in the winter, so Steve’s frail body could get a rest from New York’s cold winds and grey skies. Bucky hated how miserable Steve was in the cold, how he always shivered and never seemed to stop coughing. The south of France would be good for him.

“Thinking about your girl again, Barnsey?” asked Ralston, shoving the bottle across the table at Bucky. “You’ve got that dreamy look in your eyes again.”

Bucky laughed. “You would, too, if you had a girl like Stella. Prettiest lady in all of New York State, and a real firecracker, too.”

“And you keep a picture?” asked Dernier slyly. “One that you keep in your uniform directly over your heart?”

He had a picture, but he would never let anyone know about it, and only looked at it when he was sure no one would see. “Nah,” he said, and grinned. “A picture too easy to lose. Besides, I don’t need one. All I have to do is close my eyes and I can see her clear as day.”

Dugan shook his head in mock disgust. “He’s a real romantic, Barnsey is. Keeps every single one of his girl’s letters and reads them over and over again. It’s enough to make you sick.”

“Ah, but romance is such a beautiful thing.” Dernier raised his glass. “To Sergeant Barnes, and his beautiful Stella.”

“To Stella,” echoed Bucky, and clinked their glasses together before tipping the rich, dry wine into his mouth.

It was past midnight by the time they stumbled out of the tavern, but a few revelers were still making their way through the streets, singing snatches of song and stopping long enough to kiss anyone they passed on both cheeks. Bucky could hear music drifting out of open windows into the warm late summer air. The war wasn’t over yet - they still had to take Berlin and Hitler - but Marseilles wanted to seize this moment of victory. Bucky did, too. He was loose-limbed and fuzzy-headed from the wine, and returned all of the embraces and kisses he got. He was sure they’d win the war soon - had to, when they were pushing through France and the Ruskies had stopped Hitler in the East. Maybe in just a few more months this would all be over, and he’d be able to go back to Steve. 

Their unit had set itself up in what had once been a grand old hotel, and probably would be again once the damage from the war was cleaned up. Most of the men had just set their cots up in the lobby, not wanting to bother with anything else. Some of the men were asleep, curled up beneath their blankets, but a fair number were still awake. Bucky spotted Juniper and Falsworth, one of the British soldiers they’d met, hunched over a card game and passing a cigar back and forth.

“Hey, fellas,” said Juniper, glancing up. He jerked his head over to where Bucky had set up his cot. “Mail finally caught up. There’s a letter for you, Barnes.”

Bucky grinned and laughed along with the good-natured ribbing about getting something from his “sweetheart” and his “gal” - true enough, really, just not in the way they all thought - and sat down on his cot, reaching for the envelope. It was crumpled and smeared with dirt. Probably sent out weeks ago, and was only now catching up with him. 

Only - he didn’t recognize the handwriting that that addressed the letter to James B. Barnes. It didn’t have Steve’s elegant curves or Rebecca’s no-nonsense sharp edged lines, and there was no one else who’d ever bothered sending anything to him. The return address was from Brooklyn, though, sent from an _M. McIntyre_ who lived on Montague Street. It had to be from Madeline McIntyre, then. Bucky remembered her - she lived in a tenement house a few doors down from Steve with her older brother, worked as a secretary at some law firm or other. She’d liked Steve well enough, but she’d never had much to say to Bucky. He couldn’t think of any reason that she’d be writing to him all the way over here.

Any reason, except for one. 

Bucky’s stomach clenched and his fingers tightened on the envelope. He wanted to burn it. He wanted to throw it away. He didn’t want to open it and see what the letter said, didn’t want to know for sure. As long as he didn’t open it, he could keep pretending that everything was all right. Steve was back in New York taking his art classes and waiting for Bucky, and everything was _all right_.

In the end, though, he finally tore open the envelope, pulled the letter out, and read.

Madeline McIntyre had tried to be kind. _Such a kind-hearted young man_ , she wrote, and, _we’re all so very sorry_. It made Bucky sick with anger. Of course everyone had loved Steve: brave, generous, idealistic Steve; but they hadn’t been willing to take care of him the way Buck would have. If Bucky had been there, he’d’ve done anything to make sure Steve got the medicine he needed. _Anything_. But everyone else, they’d just stood by and watched Steve get pneumonia and then get sicker and sicker until he finally slipped away, that frail body unable to contain such a strong spirit -

And then anger fell away, leaving him cold all over, and empty of everything except for the overwhelming weight of grief.

The night before he’d shipped out, Steve had threaded his slender artist’s fingers through Bucky’s hair and pulled him down into a kiss. _Don’t die_ , he’d whispered against Bucky’s lips, fingers tightening painfully against Bucky’s scalp. _Just please don’t die, don’t leave me here alone_ , and Bucky had answered, _‘Course I won’t, Stevie, you know I’d never leave you for good_ , and didn’t say a word about how thankful he was that Steve stood absolutely no chance of ever getting into the army.

Bucky had managed to stay alive on Europe’s front lines, but Steve was the one who had slipped away,s betrayed by his own frail body. 

Steve was gone. Steve was lost to him.

Someone was talking to him, saying his name. “Hey Barnes, you okay? Barnes?” A hand on his shoulder, shaking gently at first, then more roughly. “Barnes?”

Bucky lifted his head and stared blankly up at Dugan. The other man must have seen something on his face, because he let his hand drop down and took a step back.

“Something happen back home, Barnes?”

And all Bucky could say was, “Steve.”


End file.
